


"What the hell? You just shot me!"

by TheWeirdOneL



Series: All The Times Irondad Broke and Mended My Heart [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just cant kill Peter im not ready, anyway brief mentions of bruce and thor and bucky because i love them, but hey this is angsty enough probably, but i didnt write her enough because i suck, co-parenting peter parker is my shit, i included may because of course, i need to kill my writing slussy (slump) before i start killing people, its got irondad but its like peter-centric i guess, peter gets shot, this is irondad af, tony saves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:25:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeirdOneL/pseuds/TheWeirdOneL
Summary: Peter gets shot, and it feels like fire and delirium. But at least the sun is there to save his life.(In which its a very hot summer and Tony is the sun)Another nice, sad little chicken ficlet based on the prompt: "What the hell? You just shot me!"





	"What the hell? You just shot me!"

**Author's Note:**

> Here is part 2 of my quest to complete 40+ irondad ficlets to cure my writing slussy. 
> 
> I know I wrote a prompt last night but that was at 2am so it was technically yesterday and now its today so here have another one. Enjoy <3

Peter had been through a lot in his young, seventeen years of life. A lot of pain and trauma and emotional turmoil. Admittedly, the first fourteen of those years only consisted of grazed knees and broken arms - typical kid stuff. It was when he became Spiderman, fighting crime with the big heroes of the world, that things started to get a little hairy. He’d almost drowned more times than he’d cared to admit, been thrown around and stabbed every now and again. Most recently, he’d been flung around on a weird alien planet and had his entire body torn apart and turned to dust. He was okay now though, but that last one wasn’t the best of memories. He had gone through a lot - more than a teenager like himself should have, Tony Stark had said to him once. He didn’t disagree. He  _ had _ gone through too much, but oddly enough being shot wasn’t something part of his repertoire of painful memories. Not until tonight, anyways, and it was a strange and peculiar experience.

He’d been standing in the middle of a park when it happened, one which he still didn’t quite remember the name of. He was out on patrol, as he usually was on the weekdays after school, and it had just turned 8pm. The summer sun was only just beginning to set in the distance, casting a burning orange glow on the city.  Summer wasn’t Peter’s favourite time to be swinging around the city. The heat of the blistering sun only ever served to provide a very uncomfortable and complicated patrol, and tonight happened to be especially bad. Not that it ever stopped Peter from staying out until the latest hour May would allow him. People still got hurt in the summer, and he always hated the guilt of skipping patrol. Tonight, however, he was starting to think maybe he should’ve just stayed at home.

Peter had met the man who shot him only twenty minutes ago. He’d been happily, aimlessly swinging from building to building until he’d stumbled upon the man holding some poor teenager at gunpoint. He was screaming at the kid to hand over all of his money and his phone - the usual robbery situation. Peter had dealt with this before, he always knew what to do. He didn’t expect anything to go wrong. Before the teenager was able to comply, Peter had shot a well-aimed web at the man’s hand, knocking the gun out from between his fingers and allowing the kid to run off in the confusion.

In retrospect, Peter knew that was his first mistake. He should have webbed the gun. Should have made it impossible for the man to pick it up again. But he didn’t, and as the teenager ran out of sights the man grabbed for the gun and ran straight to the empty park. He hadn’t bothered shooting haphazard bullets Peter’s way as he swung between each streetlamp to follow, not like all the others usually did. His second mistake was believing that the man was bluffing about having a loaded gun - they did that sometimes. Most robbers just wanted to scare people, sometimes Peter forgot some of them wanted to kill too. Peter had chased him all the way to the park, shooting webs that the man always seemed to be able to avoid just by being under the right cover at exactly the right time. Or perhaps it was Peter’s fault. Maybe the heat was messing up his senses.

By the time they’d hit the centre of the park, there was nowhere for Peter to swing anymore. There was just himself, the man with the gun, and a few benches surrounding a round patch of dirt where a fountain used to be. But Peter was confident in his fighting ability, and perhaps that was his third mistake. Overconfidence. That’s what he thought anyway, as he sat leaned up against a bench with his hand pressed against the bloodied hole in his side wondering about everything he’d done wrong leading up to this moment. As soon as the man had realised that Peter couldn’t swing anymore, he shot him. One clean, poorly aimed shot to his side. It was the pure look of horror on the man’s face as Peter didn’t die instantly that scared him the most. This man  _ wanted _ to kill him. Why did everyone want to kill him?

“What the hell?” Peter had said, because as the bullet cut clean through his skin he almost didn’t realise it happened. He’d heard the noise, but it felt more like a punch than anything. It felt weird, and it took Peter a while to realise the bullet had gone through him until he looked down and saw blood. “You just shot me!” he then slurred out in anger, ready to go web the guy only to fall straight to the ground.

It made Peter sad that someone wanted to kill him, and when the man had ran off with his stupid gun and an ambulance didn’t arrive minutes later, Peter cried. He cried so much and so violently that he had to take off his mask because it started to feel like he was drowning in lava. Which only made him even sadder, because now he couldn’t hear Karen’s voice anymore. He knew she was speaking, knew she said something about help, but nothing was registering anymore. All that occupied his mind as he sat with his hand pressed up against his bloody side was that he was going to die alone. No Aunt May, no Ned, no Tony. Turning to dust on Titan had sucked - nothing would beat how sucky that was - but at least then he had Tony. He’d always had Tony, but now he was alone. Getting shot wasn’t much fun.

“You jus’ shot me,” he slurred again, leaning his head back onto the cool metal of the bench to stare up at the sky. “You jus’ shot me.”

He was going delirious, but he blamed the heat. Sometimes when May would mess up the cooking, she’d blame it on the heat. She’d always say that the heat was getting to her, and that she couldn’t think straight in this damned heat. Maybe this was the same thing. His face felt like it was burning, his forehead and hair felt sweaty and his side was on fire, and if he didn’t feel the pain earlier he could definitely feel it now. It was so hot that even the sun started rising again. It was getting higher and higher, and in a flash of red and gold it started moving towards him. So fast that Peter cowered back and let out another cry of pain.

“Don’t move, Pete. I’ve got you,” the sun said, it’s voice soft but shaky. It was worried about him, and Peter couldn’t figure out why. He tried focusing his eyes but everything was so bright and hot that all he could see was white and red.

“Wh- How’re you here?” he muttered, head lolling side to side as he tried lifting it upwards. His question was shushed, and Peter tried to sit up straighter to ask again but the movement hurt like hell.

He whined out in pain, and felt his head roll back heavily onto the bench. Instead of hard metal, it fell back against a cold, armoured hand. He felt soothing fingers start carding through his hair, and the gentle pressure against his scalp felt calming and familiar and for just a moment it eased the pain in his side. It felt like Saturday nights in a living room that wasn’t his, leaned up against a dad who wasn’t really his either but who he loved like one anyways. Peter sunk into the touch and didn’t bother moving again. Even when he felt his body being lifted from the ground, he didn’t move. The sun was carrying him away - taking him to somewhere safer and better than here - and it was cold, somehow. It was cold and comforting, and it felt like something Peter could trust. Who knew he could trust the sun?

“It’s okay, kid. You’re okay,” it said again. “We’ll be home soon, just hang in there for me, Pete.” Peter didn’t bother trying to reply because as soon as the sun spoke his eyes fluttered shut, and a veil of blackness washed over the whites and reds of his vision.

 

* * *

 

Peter woke up seeing whites and reds again, but this time it didn’t hurt. It was dimmer, and cooler, and the only pain he felt was a persistent ache in his left side. The room he woke up in was soft - the white of the ceiling wasn’t blinding like the white outside, and the red stuck permanently in the right corner of his vision felt safe and nice. The sun had stayed with him. For a moment he laid there, trying to blink away the confusion in his brain and trying to put everything back together until it made sense. It took him a few minutes before he realised he was in the Medbay at Stark Tower - he'd been here enough times to know. He was in the Medbay, because he’d been shot, and it was dark outside. How did he get here?

After blinking a few more times, Peter turned his head and followed the vision of red until it fell upon a sleeping figure. It was Tony Stark, leaning back in one of the Medbay’s chairs, still wrapped up in his armour except for his exposed, exhausted face. He looked peaceful - as peaceful as Tony ever got, anyways - and for a moment Peter debated whether or not he should wake him up because he knew the peace would be replaced by worry in seconds. So instead Peter stayed quiet, and looked around the room a little more. There was no one else in there except for himself and Tony, but there were remnants of some of the other Avengers in the room. A weird, leftover static in the air that Peter knew meant Thor had been around, a beaten up medical bag belonging to Bruce, and one of Bucky’s jackets left out over a chair on his other side. Peter was glad to know they were here, and he was glad Tony stayed. 

There was an IV line attached to his left arm, with a clearish liquid flowing through it and into his veins. It was painkillers, judging by the heavy weight in his arms and legs. Tony and Bruce had developed them a while ago, when after an emergency surgery a few months back they realised Peter burnt through practically every painkiller and anaesthesia out there. And no one could say they didn’t work - the woozy feeling in his brain and the reduced pain in his side was enough proof of that. He still felt like crap, and his side still felt like it had been dunked into a volcano, but he could've been worse. He could've been dead.

“Pete?” a voice called out, and Peter turned to his side and found Tony staring at him with wide, worried eyes. There it was - the worry. It made him sad.

“‘m sorry,” Peter mumbled, trying to lift himself up into a sitting position. When a burst of fire shot up his side, he groaned in pain and fell back down onto the bed.

“Stop moving, kid. You’ll hurt yourself,” Tony soothed, quickly moving to sit by Peter’s side on the bed. When he started fussing around with the pillows and blankets, Peter reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist. Tony and May were too much alike. 

“Thanks for savin’ me, Mr. Stark,” he said, putting all of his energy and willpower into making his words sound coherent. It seemed to work, because Tony smiled and gently ruffled his already messy curls.

“Don’t thank me, kid,” he said, and leaned in to a whisper, his smile widening even further. “Thank the sun.”

For a second Peter stared at him in confusion, until suddenly he remembered his earlier delirium and his face fell. He really thought Tony was the  _ sun _ . “Oh god, that’s so embarrassing,” he groaned into his hands, unable to keep the small smile off his own face as Tony started laughing. He still felt woozy, and confused, but nowhere near as bad as he’d been earlier. He didn’t even want to know what other embarrassing things he’d said.

“Don’t worry, Pete. I’ll think about sparing you the embarrassment of telling May,” Tony chuckled, and even though he sounded happy and relaxed he was constantly moving. 

Every other second he was fiddling with the IV, fussing with the pillows and the bed sheets and making sure Peter was comfortable. Peter didn’t bother pointing out how many times Tony went to place a hand on his face or his arm, constantly trying to remind himself that Peter was still alive. It was a parent thing, apparently, because May always did the same.

Peter watched him fuss around for a while, until his eyes started drooping shut and his head fell back into the newly fluffed pillow. Tony noticed straight away, and gently pulled the sheets up to Peter’s chin.

“Goodnight Pete,” he heard Tony say. "I'll still be here when you wake up." The last thing he felt was a kiss pressed on the top of his forehead before he fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

 Nearly half an hour later, May arrived. No one bothered getting in her way she rushed down the familiar hallways towards the Medbay, eyes blurry with tears. Her thoughts were racing with what kind of state Peter was in. Last she’d heard from Tony, Bruce had gotten the wound all stitched up and dealt with and Peter was currently drugged up on painkillers and asleep and that he was perfectly okay. But that didn’t stop her mind from racing. The last time a Parker was shot, he had died, and she had lost the love of her life and Peter had lost the only father he knew. She couldn’t lose anyone else.

When she burst through the doors of the Medbay, her beating heart calmed, and a soft smile spread across her face. Peter was completely knocked out in his usual bed (that boy got hurt too often, it was ridiculous). His chest was rising and falling evenly with each breath, and his head was leaned up against Tony’s chest. Meanwhile, the latter was laid down by his side with his arm wrapped around his shoulders and one hand smoothing through his curly brown hair. It was a parent thing, one that she had been glad to share with Tony. It was nice knowing that if she couldn’t be there, at least Tony could.

Tony looked up and gave her a tired smile. “He’s okay,” he whispered as she approached the two, moving to sit by Peter’s feet with an equally tired smile on her own face. Being here, and seeing Peter in the care of a man who before had been a complete, untrustworthy stranger, but was now practically a father to him, she didn’t question whether her boy was okay or not. She knew the answer.

“I know he is,” she said with a confident nod of the head. As long as the two of them were around, Peter would always be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This was hard to write, and I feel like it's not great. But hey, even bad writing is better than no writing at all.  
> Hope it wasn't too sucky!


End file.
